


Cornerstone

by writinghomunculus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Iwaizumi cries, M/M, it's cute tbh just try it, it's not angst, oikawa's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5919766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinghomunculus/pseuds/writinghomunculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unlike yourself, you’ve only ever seen him cry once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cornerstone

**Author's Note:**

> .cornerstone  
>  _noun._ something that is essential, indispensable.  
>  _syn._ keystone, pillar, anchor.

Unlike yourself, you’ve only ever seen him cry once.

  
.

You’re seventeen, and you can’t count the number of times you have cried.

 

You remember that one time you time you and him were running through the forest behind your house, him chasing you in a game of tag when you were six. You slipped down a slope and he grabbed your arm trying to save you, only for the both of you to end up tumbling down. You scrapped both your knees and landed on your hands, tears following shortly after the shock of what had just happened.

 

You cry silently at first, but the hiccups bubble and build inside your chest, and before long you’re bawling like the child you are and you kind of want to go home. There’s a sudden shade over your face where the sun should’ve been, and when you look up you see him reaching out for you. He helps you stand, and before you know it he’s pulling you along, guiding you through this thick mass of foliage that holds the unknown. You’re scared, but he adjusts his grip a little better, hand fitted in your own and you instantly feel much safer.

 

He brings you to a small stream to wash your bloodied knees, hands cupping the water, cleaning your wounds with a gentleness you didn’t know he had. Afterwards he brings you home, and even though your sister cleans and covers your knees for you too, you wonder why you didn’t feel the same itching warmth in your chest.

  
.  
 

You think about it and you realize you cry more as you got older. You cry when you’re angry or when you’re sad, when you’re frustrated and when you’re afraid. You aren’t a crybaby, but you let your insecurities ebb at you. They take you apart little by little, and without you realizing it you’re flaking, crumbling, falling.

You think that you aren’t good enough, that all your hard work will be outshined by that one underclassmen who is dripping with talent. If you don’t push yourself you’re going to get left behind. Some days you work yourself, certain that something in you will change soon, that you will develop a skill that will become hard to outshine. Other days you work harder, blood pounding in your ears, limbs trembling with strain, and you wonder how many more weeks of training it will take you before you are one tiny step closer to his monstrous talent.

On those days, you only feel frustration. Pent-up frustration of not being good enough, not being _better_ , and you grit your teeth hard while wondering how much longer you can keep up with that God-given talent before you are replaced. You’re determined, and you’re good at what you do — throwing different kinds of tosses, practicing a new serve — but you don’t think it’s enough to set you apart.  This makes you angry. You’re angry, so terribly angry — at yourself.

You’re angry at yourself. At your limitations. At yourself for having those limitations that don’t seem to go away no matter how hard you try. But you work. You work continuously every day, trying to close the gap between, but for some reason you don’t see the gap getting any smaller. There’s something inside you that’s starting to come apart as days pass, and deep within you, there’s a fear that you won’t be able to catch up to him once he surpasses you.

You're angry, frustrated, scared.

There’s a whirlwind of emotions inside of you, a swirling storm you can’t contain. You’re fourteen when all these confined, restrained emotions cause a surge through you. You're fourteen when you let them take control, and you almost do something you'd regret.

But thankfully he is there, and he stops you.

He catches your hand in his before it’s too late, and even if he’s approach is a little harsh, he reminds you, and you remember.

.  
 

That night, you’re in his room and you cry. You cry because these feelings rooted deep inside of you, some for him, but more for you.

 

The tears fall heavy, and it’s different from that time you scraped your knee. These are violent, loud sobs that erupt from the bottom of your heart, tears stemmed from all the bottled-up emotions you’ve had inside finally surfacing. You’re sniffing too much and there’s probably snot on your face, but he doesn’t care and he’s got you pressed against his chest. You’re sitting on his bed while he’s standing, and you’re thankful he can’t see your face because you never wanted him to see you like this in the first place. Not at all.

 

He’s seeing what you’re like behind that charming-handsome boy facade you usually put on. He sees the insecurities that eat away at your skin, how bits and pieces of you peel, crack and fall apart. They’re flying, falling, and you think the world is just a little bit cruel for having him come save you from yourself only for things to end up like this just two hours later.

 

But instead of feeling his shoulders sag from the tiredness of holding you, his arms are tense and he pulls you in closer, chin resting atop your hair. He surrounds you, completely encompasses you in his embrace. Your breathing hitches again from the last time it has calmed, and you feel yourself crying harder even though you’ve never felt more relieved.

.

In your last year of middle school following that incident, you’ve changed. You’ve learnt to set in the best way possible for each player on your team (it didn’t come easy but you’ve practiced incredibly hard for it).  You think that maybe, just maybe, you've found a way to fight with your own strength. You’re confident now, certain of the fact that you can help your team become the better six on court, and you don’t let that memory of what he did leave you.

You never forget after that.

.

Unlike yourself, you’ve only ever seen him cry once.

 

It’s a rush of tears — not the shy, quiet ones that lick your cheeks slow and gradual — instead, it’s the collapse of a dam, the running of a waterfall where tears, uncontrolled, spill from his eyes.

 

The muscles of his arms and calf tense, and you see his jaw clench. His face contorts in a way you’ve never seen on him. The look is obvious — he’s angry and he’s disappointed. You know, you know better than anyone, that these feelings eating him up are directed towards himself. Not anyone other.

 

You’ve never seen him like this. Not once. It’s usually you, who is weak and who is crying. He’s the one who’s strong. He’s the one who comforts you, who holds you steady when you fall.  He puts you back up on your feet, and he pushes you to keep going even when you tell yourself you cannot.

 

Seeing him cry feels like being pierced by glass, right through the heart.

 

And you’re on him in a flash. You’re holding him, cupping his face in your palms, desperately wiping his tears away with the pads of your thumbs. You try to keep him together, to stop him from breaking apart. You hold him with such gentleness in your bones, as if he’s suddenly fragile. Your mouth open and closes a few times — you’re trying to find words, but none of them sound right, none are the correct ones to say. Your mind is in overdrive, and you’re a mess. You wonder how he does this for you each time, how he has the uncanny ability to know the exact thing to say, calming you down each time.

 

His next words are like a whisper, but you hear them perfectly.

 

“What kind... of an ace am I?”

 

Those seven words, and you feel something clawing at your throat. Those seven words, and the back of your eyes itches, prickles and burns. The answer is so painfully obvious to you, words already rolling off the tip of your tongue.

 

“The best kind.”

 

You wonder if this is how he always knows what to say.

 

“You’re the best ace I could ever ask for. You’re more than enough.”

 

You wonder if the answer had been any more clear.

 

_fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://heath-hasekuras.tumblr.com)


End file.
